American Horror Story - Season 1-5 E12 - The End
by leaftheweed
Summary: Episode 12: When hinges creak in door-less chambers and strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls; whenever candle lights flicker, where the air is deathly still - that is the time when ghosts are present. Welcome, foolish mortals, to the end of Season 1.5. Will it be the end of the world too? Written in the style of the show. Features full cast.
1. Chapter 1 - Beginning of the End

...

**1980**

"Ow," Addie complained.

Constance didn't slow down. She whipped the curling iron from her eight-year-old daughter's dark hair, set it down and fluffed the fat curl that it left behind. Then she affixed a bright yellow bow, patted it and stepped back to eye her work.

"I hate the curling iron. Why do you have to curl my hair?" the little girl grouched.

"Because it looks pretty that way," Constance said. "Don't you want to look pretty?"

Adelaide had to stand on a little stool so her mother could move around her and style her without having to bend over, which gave the child a perfect view of her own reflection. She didn't like looking at herself. She hated it, in fact. It only reminded her of how different she was. The frown she wore only worsened her appearance though so she forced herself to put on a smile. It was a fake smile but it looked better than the frown.

"You don't curl Tate's hair."

The three-year-old boy had entered the room, dragging his favorite digger toy and sucking his thumb. He smiled at Addie around the wet digit when he heard her say his name.

"Tate already has curly hair, sweetheart," said Constance without missing a beat. She clamped a bow onto the other side of the girl's head.

"Why do we have to go over there?" Addie said since she was unable to argue her mom further on the hair issue.

"Because," said Constance. She stepped back to admire her work. "It's Charles' birthday and we're invited to his party. It would be rude to refuse."

"But he's _dead_. Dead people don't have birthdays."

Constance frowned and put her hands on her hips. "Adelaide, just because a person's dead doesn't mean it's all right to be rude to them. In fact, the dead are best handled more politely than the livin' because they're more sensitive and they're more temperamental. But you should be especially respectful of Doctor Montgomery. We're gonna live in his house someday."

"Why?" Addie wanted to know.

Tate came over and dropped his digger so he could hook one arm around Addie's knees. Then he pulled his thumb out of his mouth and gave her a well-intentioned kiss on her knee. It made her giggle and smile a real smile. Having a baby brother wasn't as big of a horror as she'd first thought when he'd been born.

"Because it's my home, sweetheart," Constance said. She gave her daughter another critical eye. "You'll do," she decided then she shifted her attention to the little boy still hanging from Addie's legs. "It's your turn to get dressed, honey."

Tate didn't particularly want to get dressed up any more than Adelaide did but he never fussed when his mother wanted to make him look nice. He didn't really care what he was wearing so long as he didn't have to do it himself. Clothes were confusing and he didn't like it when he got them wrong.

When his mother put her hand out to him he let go of his sister and took it. He popped the thumb of his other hand back into his mouth and let her lead him back to his room. It was going to be his first trip over to the Montgomery Mansion that he'd make on his own two feet. He would spend most of that time there playing hide and seek with Addie and Beau in the attic and exploring the old junk up there.

Tate got his nice clothes dusty while playing but by the time Constance came for them, she wasn't of a mind to care. She just took them back home. Spending a whole evening in the company of the dead was exhausting for the living, even when things went well.

**...**

**░A░m░e░r░i░c░a░n░ ░H░o░r░r░o░r░ ░S░t░o░r░y░**

**...**

**2018 **

Thunder growled menacingly as a huge storm front swept over the city of Los Angeles. It was as if the elements themselves knew what was happening at Murder House and were conspiring with the darkness. Within the house the very fabric of reality was tearing apart, reweaving itself in a tapestry of fear and violence. A battle for the future had erupted.

Within one bare room on the third floor Father Jeremiah clutched his prayer pendant and retreated from the twisted, gruesome forms of Maria and Gladys. The erstwhile nursing students had been warped by the influence of the unholy presence within the house and they staggered toward the priest menacingly. He breathed a prayer for strength - for help. He heard no response but he felt the pendant of Samael warm slightly in his hand. He cast about for a weapon of some kind but he was in the room Chad and Patrick had placed Tate in. There was nothing in the room remotely like a weapon within reach but there were the twin windows right beside him.

"Where ever God closes a door, he opens a window," Jeremiah muttered sardonically.

He tried to pry open the window but it wouldn't budge even though he unlocked it. One of the nurses made a swipe at him with her long, black claws and he ducked to the side. Then, using the same strength he'd called on to restrain Michael - and occasionally Constance - in the past, he pounded the side of his fist against the window. The glass cracked. The skinnier of the nurses gurgled and grabbed for him. Her claws tore through the ritual robes he'd donned in order to bless Tate's room and he felt them rake his back. It was just a slight wound but it burned like fire.

The priest hit the glass again, as hard as he could, and it shattered outward. He hauled himself through it with superhuman rapidity, heart hammering so hard it felt like it could leap from his chest. He cut his right hand on a jagged shard but he kept moving, scuttling up the roof and away from the broken window in case the demonic nurses tried to follow him.

As he moved over the rough old shingles he felt chilly raindrops; just a few at first and then the downpour came. Thunder rumbled low and fierce and close. He made it to the top of the roof and crouched there, looking down. The nurse monsters hadn't followed him but he couldn't get down to the ground from so high up. He didn't want to leave the building anyway. He had to find Michael.

There was only one place he could think to try for in his position: The attic.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

You made it. This is The End of the world as we know it.

But if I've learned anything while writing this fanfic, it's that no good story truly has an end. For every question that I had at the end of Season 1 that I've answered in the past 11 episodes, I've discovered more questions. I know there will be more left after this last episode too and I do apologize for that. I hope to answer a few in future one-shot stories but chances are there will always be issues unresolved because the stories of so many characters just don't end abruptly. But hopefully this Season Finale' episode will be enough to satisfy the worst of the 'what about..?' itches.

The description of this episode is paraphrased from _Disney's Haunted Mansion_ (the original record, not the movie). If you haven't heard the recording, you should. It's what turned me on to paranormal fiction in the first place. I still listen to it every Halloween, though on CD now.

If you've somehow managed to miss it, please check out my Profile for music to listen to while reading. It really does help the mood along. Next chapter, chaos continues.


	2. Chapter 2 - Fight the Future

…

In the basement the pair of rubber-clad individuals had subdued Chad and Patrick and stuffed them in the same vault-like room Hayden and her sister victims occupied. With that distraction out of the way Rubber Man could get back to the task of trying to combine Joshua's soul with Michael's body.

He raised the scalpel, ready to slice, when Constance's shrill shout echoed through the basement: "Stop him, Tate! For God's sake stop him now!"

It was enough to reach past the hold the house had on Tate, pulling him out of his nightmares and back into the present. He saw his mother closing in on the operating table quickly but not fast enough to prevent the inevitable. Acting instead of thinking, the blond teen lunged at the black-suited figure and grabbed his arm. Rubber Man twisted and brought the old scalpel around to slash at Tate's throat. He scored, tearing through the red outer skin that had adhered itself to the young man's body.

Tate stumbled back. He knew he'd been cut but, more importantly, he knew there was now a hole in the rubber suit. He shoved his fingers into it, viciously ripping at the thin red layer. He literally tore the hood off his head. The air never felt so refreshing, despite the pain in his throat.

Constance, meanwhile, had flung herself into the fray when Tate took a hit. She had a grip on Rubber Man's arm, preventing him from using the scalpel again. That's when Violet and Vivien showed up. Tate knew he should help his mother but Joshua was for the moment unguarded and acting on impulse the teen boy grabbed the baby and rushed him over to where Vivien stood taking in the scene in shock.

He shoved the wailing infant into the stunned woman's arms. "Go," he insisted urgently. "Take him to the room the priest blessed." He looked at Violet then and touched her cheek briefly. He could feel her warmth through the thin layer of rubber. "Go with her. Make sure they stay safe. I'll find you later."

Tate turned to help his mother then. The situation had reversed: Rubber Man had her pinned, bent backward over the end of the operating table near Michael's feet. One quick injection from the needle in his wrist and she stopped struggling. It was then that Tate hit Rubber Man from the side, knocking the guy away from Constance and the table.

They faced off for an instant. Tate could feel blood oozing down the inside of the suit he wore from the cut on his throat but it was nothing next to the rage he felt at seeing his mother victimized. Rubber Man lunged for him; Tate braced for impact but a dusty IV stand slammed down between them. Father Jeremiah had planted it there, drawing Rubber Man up short. In the attic the priest had come across Beauregard and the gentle ghost had showed him the way to the dumbwaiter. It hadn't been a comfortable ride down into the cellar but it had been an efficient and relatively safe way to get through the house without running into the undead nursing students again.

Jeremiah swung the old medical stand around at Rubber Man's head. The black-clad figure fell back, on the retreat for the moment. Tate took a brief moment to glance up the stairs. Violet and Vivien were gone. He had no idea where Chad and Patrick were; he didn't remember sealing them up.

"Leave this place!" Father Jeremiah commanded.

Rubber Man continued to retreat as the priest swung the IV stand at him again. Tate looked around for something to use as a weapon too but there weren't any other IV stands handy. So he just dove at the black-suited man's legs. He thought if he could get the guy prone, Father Jeremiah could bash away with his stand at will.

But Rubber Man had other plans. He hopped back over the operating table and grabbed the scalpel he'd dropped earlier when Constance had jumped on him. Both Jeremiah and Tate scrambled after him but he brought the old blade down, slicing into Michael's exposed belly. The boy spasmed and gave a gurgling groan, though he didn't regain consciousness.

Jeremiah gave a scream of rage that sounded positively inhuman. He leaped forward, clearing the operating table and body-slammed Rubber Man hard, knocking him into the wooden shelves behind. Tate unfastened the straps that held the bleeding boy to the table. Father Jeremiah tried to grab Rubber Man but the monster stepped back into the shadows and disappeared. The priest gave another primal yell then, his whole body trembling with the force of his anger. When he turned back toward the operating table, his eyes were completely shrouded in black.

"Get off of him!" he yelled forcefully at Tate. Then he realized the ghost was trying to free the boy. The darkness faded from his eyes and he dropped the IV stand so he could hurry over to help. "Here. Let me have him," he said once they'd undone the last strap, expression desperate. "I'm the only one who can get him out of the house."

Tate eyed him warily but he knew the man spoke the truth. Michael was technically Tate's son but Jeremiah was the only mortal among them and therefore the only one who could take Michael to get the medical care he needed - and to get him out of reach of the spirit that had hurt him.

Jeremiah carried the boy up the stairs, running more swiftly than a normal man could have done with the same burden. Tate went to his mother's side and checked on her. He lifted her up and took her back to Doctor Montgomery's personal office in the back of the basement where he gently placed her on the old couch there. He smoothed her blond hair back from her forehead then paused to home in on where Chad and Patrick were.

…

Violet and Vivien were nowhere to be seen when Jeremiah made it up to the main hallway with Michael in his arms. The house groaned and creaked ominously, like the very frame of it was protesting his leaving with the boy. It occurred to him it might be an earthquake but there was no time for speculation. He headed straight for the front door, praying that Michael would stay strong despite the severity of the wound.

"Going somewhere?" a woman asked, stepping out from the side hallway that led to the kitchen, right into Jeremiah's path.

It was Fiona. The cult groupie had fallen prey to the sinkhole: She had a ghoulish quality to her leer thanks to her narrow, needle-like discolored teeth and blood-matted hair. Her fingers had joined together into large bony, gore-covered blades and she lashed out at him with one.

Father Jeremiah twisted, shielding Michael while ducking the blow. She nicked his shoulder. It wasn't as painful as the injury he'd taken from the nursing student upstairs but it still hurt.

"You will not stop me!" the man shouted and he felt the energy in the command that time.

So did Fiona. She gave a shrill shriek and flinched back then she vanished. Jeremiah charged to the door and pulled on the handle, smearing it with Michael's blood. He half expected the door to resist but it swung open easily.

Rubber Man was standing on the other side.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

This cluster-fuck was particularly tricky to write because there are so many characters involved. I had to keep track of practically everyone in the house and consider what they would be doing during all this. It must've gone through at least 4 rewrites before I got it to a point where it made sense. It was worse, even, than the return to Westfield. Action like this isn't easy to describe without losing intensity and pace.

The title of this chapter is drawn from the _X-Files_ sequel film of the same title.


	3. Chapter 3 - All Hell Breaks Loose

…

Vivien and Violet made it to Tate's bedroom without being intercepted. The strong wind blowing outside made an eerie howling sound through the closed windows and a harsh rain pelted the dark glass.

"Shit," Violet said as she pulled the door shut. There was no lock. She turned to her mother, who looked drained and drawn.

"We need a weapon," the older woman said. "Just in case."

She didn't say it but they both knew she meant it was in case something found them that wouldn't be turned aside by a simple 'go away'. They both looked around but they found nothing that would help in the bedroom. Chad and Patrick had done a thorough job of making sure the room was weapon-free.

"The closet," suggested Vivien. "The coat racks in most of the closets… they're loose. They drop right into brackets. Try pulling the rod out."

Violet nodded and went to the closet. The rack was lined with clothes of Chad's choosing and a few of Tate's favorite ugly old sweaters. The sweaters never failed to catch Violet's eye because of their outdated style. They were all eyesores and she liked them because of their fearless individuality. They, like their owner, might put off many people but a select few could see the value in them. And she knew what they meant to him.

She grabbed the armful of clothes and pulled them off the rod, dropping them in a pile on the floor. If Chad complained later she would apologize for the mess - if there was a later. Once the rod was clear she pushed up on it. It stuck a bit at first then swung free. She twisted it all the way out and turned to bring it out of the closet. She spied a belt hanging from a nail right next to the door and thought it out of place. But she didn't stop to wonder why it wasn't hanging with the rest of the clothing.

"I got it," she said once she emerged with the wooden pole. "You don't know where the gun is, do you?"

Vivien shook her head. "Last I saw, I think Chad had taken it back. It might be in his room but I don't think we should try to go and find it."

"We can't just sit here," Violet debated. She braced the rod against the floor and gave her mother a look that was half determined and half pleading.

"I don't know what else we can do," said Vivien. She fussed over Joshua, smoothing his thin hair. "I think he's cold."

She went to the closet then and grabbed a soft flannel shirt from the pile of clothing on the floor. She used it to wrap the baby in. He grunted a bit but settled once she had him swaddled and tucked securely into the crook of her arm.

There was a rattling at the door then and both women turned toward the sound. Violet stepped forward and readied her clothing rod like a baseball bat. The door swung open to reveal…

Nora. Her curly hair was messy and the shawl around her shoulders was torn and askew.

"The baby!" she gasped, clutching at the shawl with one hand to keep it from falling as she tripped into the room.

Seeing Vivien and the flannel-wrapped bundle, she was visibly quite relieved. She found new strength to hurry over to the other woman where she checked on the state of the infant. She smiled then and pressed her other hand to her chest where her heart would be, were she alive.

"Oh, thank heavens!" Nora sighed. "Everything's gone completely mad!"

Violet pushed the door shut again and considered shoving the bookshelf in front of it. She doubted that would help much if anything really wanted to get in though.

"Yes," Vivien nodded. She let Nora take the baby. "We know. That's why we're here. The priest- There was a priest here. He blessed this room."

Nora rearranged the shirt around the sleeping baby's face so she could see all of it and held Joshua close. Then she looked at the other women in the room, puzzled. "Why would a priest come here?" She fluttered a hand dismissively, not really interested in the answer. "If you see him again, have him do the halls as well. I ran into a very nasty bug-like thing of a man out there. It chased me almost the whole way here. It tried to take my head off!"

Violet and Vivien exchanged grim looks while Nora glanced over at the door nervously.

"Looks like we're stuck here," Vivien sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"But for how long?" said Violet. She leaned on her closet pole again like it was a spear. She really didn't want to be stuck in a bedroom while important things were happening elsewhere. "I should go…"

"Go where?" asked Vivien, alarmed.

"Don't be ridiculous," chided Nora, though she did it while gazing lovingly at the infant in her arms. "Whatever's happening out there, the men will handle it. Your place is in here."

Violet wasn't so sure. She wasn't sure the men could handle whatever was going on in the house and she was growing more certain with each passing moment that her place was out there, with them, facing whatever was happening. Stuck in the bedroom with the mothers and baby was not where she wanted to be. It made her feel useless. Impatient.

"Mom…" she said, tone already petitioning.

"Violet," said Vivien. She didn't sound at all permissive. "It's too dangerous."

"Mom!" objected Violet. "I can handle this! Whatever it is, it can't kill me."

"We don't know what it can do," said Vivien. "Or what it wants. I don't want-" She choked on the thought as she turned it into words. "I don't want anything to happen to you. I don't want to lose you too."

She was referring to Ben and her daughter could tell. Violet softened a little and went to her mother. She held out a hand which Vivien took with both of her own.

"I'll be okay, mom," Violet insisted softly. Her eyes implored understanding. "You know me. You know I'm stronger than-" She almost said 'dad' but stopped herself. "Whatever's out there in the halls. I have to do what I can to help end this. We can't… we can't stay here like this."

Vivien wanted to object but she knew Violet was right, at least about the fact that they couldn't continue to just sit there waiting for whatever was going to happen.

"I'll come with you," she said and started to rise.

Violet shook her head. "No, mom. You stay here. I'll do better on my own and Nora…" She glanced at the blonde-haired ghost. The woman was lost in her adoring worship of baby Joshua. "She might need help. You know?"

Vivien nodded then reached out to hug her daughter. The girl was so tough and independent. Though they were on good terms, they didn't touch often because Violet wasn't a touchy-feely person by nature. But in this instance Vivien felt the need to trump the girl's desire for personal space. It was a mother's right. It also allowed the older woman a moment to brush away quickly the two hot tears that tried to escape her without Violet seeing.

When her mother let go the teen girl took her closet rod and headed out into the hall, tugging the door shut behind her. She glanced around, immediately on alert. It was incredibly dark in the hallway; oppressively dark. It reminded her of the darkness she'd seen when her family had toured a cavern when she was little. She could actually feel the dark then; like a physical presence sitting on her skin and filling her nose. It was a big feeling of smothering nothingness. She felt just like that in the upstairs hall of Murder House.

Only here she could hear distant sounds. Weird sounds she couldn't identify. She gripped the rod tighter and headed carefully in the direction of the stairs by memory since she couldn't see. She thought about shifting past them down to the ground floor but she was afraid she'd leave the pole behind if she did. She had never successfully carried a real, solid object with her when she shifted through space and she had tried. And as silly as it might be, she took comfort in the solid presence of the stick.

It was kind of funny, she supposed, that she'd been so concerned with wanting to retain her human qualities when she really had no idea what she could do as a ghost. She'd seen some of the other spirits do some pretty amazing things but she hadn't really done much apart from seeing how many ways she could destroy herself and recover from it. She decided that she would have to find a balance between exploring what she could do now and trying to maintain her humanity. Because she really would feel better if she could do something like what Kyle had done to her at the school, pushing her back several feet with just a touch. She wasn't confident in her latent abilities to want to try new things that might not work, in a situation this out of control.

So she kept the wooden closet rod and moved slowly through the darkness.

…

Downstairs, Father Jeremiah took a few hasty steps back away from the door and Rubber Man. The black-suited individual stalked after him menacingly, more terrifying than any half-remembered dream the priest had experienced. Jeremiah turned a little to better shelter Michael from the monster.

"Stay back!" he shouted at the shiny black creature.

Rubber Man hesitated but kept coming so Jeremiah kept backpedaling toward the stairs. He almost tripped backward when his heel hit the bottom step. Rubber Man tensed ready to spring when a sudden movement in the hallway to his right distracted them both. The creature that once was Hayden shot out of the hall behind the stairs in a blur of motion and slammed into the rubber-suited individual, carrying them both into the far wall. The femme-monster quickly pinned Rubber Man and with an unholy screech tore at him with all six of her arms.

It was a gruesome sight to see the dragon-like beast disembowel the other spirit but Jeremiah couldn't make himself look away. He was transfixed with the horror of it all.

"Dad!" Violet shouted from the stairs behind the priest.

Her voice broke the paralysis and pulled Father Jeremiah's attention off the carnage. The she-beast also looked up and she hissed at the teen to Jeremiah's left. Covered in blood and gore, the creature launched itself at Violet next.

The girl on the stairs screamed but didn't flee. Instead she jammed one end of the closet rod she had with her against the bottom stair to block the monster. The patched-together woman was moving too fast to shift plans or motion and she rammed herself full-tilt into the pole, impaling the main portion of her grotesque torso brutally. It must have struck something important because the creature staggered back away from the small group at the stairway. She still had the pole lodged in her midsection when she disappeared. Rubber Man had also vanished during the melee.

Violet looked to the priest with wide eyes. "Get him someplace safe," she panted. Then she sat down heavily on the bottom stairs to collect herself.

Jeremiah nodded and hurried for the door. This time nothing stopped him on his way out.

"Violet!" Tate's voice reached her from the basement stairs. Shortly after he emerged and ran to her. He grabbed her up from the steps in a powerful hug, squeezing her tight. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she assured with a small smile to prove her words.

"What about Michael?"

She shook her head when he pulled back to look at her. "I don't know. Father Jeremiah's- I think he took him to the hospital. They just left. They'll be safe, I think."

Chad and Patrick both emerged from the basement then. Both looked dirty and battered but in one piece. Tate had released them and the she-beast from the same vault-like room in the far reaches of the basement. Both of the men looked like they needed some rest. Violet suspected she did too.

She was about to say as much when the earthquake struck.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

We're almost halfway through the last episode now. What better way to mark that milestone than with an earthquake?

So as I was reflecting on this multi-episode fanfic, I considered how many of the horror movie/show tropes I'd managed to include. I felt I should at least nod to as many as I could over the course of writing this monster. Then I was out with friends one afternoon and I realized I'd overlooked one of the most basic horror movie tropes of all.

"I haven't impaled anyone!" I blurted out in the car.

Fortunately I was with friends who know what I've been writing and they were able to correctly assume that I was talking about this fic and not me, personally. Although that is true as well - I haven't done that. But I knew I had to impale someone in this story. It happens in _every_ horror serial out there. And even in many non-serial horror shows and films. It's a tried-and-true given - it's just not horror till somebody gets impaled.

So. There's the impaling for you. And another baker's dozen of cultural references too. Let's see. "The horror of it all" is a song from _Return of the Living Dead pt. 2. _The bug-monster Nora dealt with is a nod to the bad guy in _Men in Black_, who still gives me the heebie-jeebies. The reference to a dragon ties in with many occult-based films, which in Revelation in the Bible, is almost synonymous with the devil. Violet having to move through palpable darkness was largely inspired by the _Paranormal Activity_ films, which I watched around the time of this writing.

Check back for the next installment!


	4. Chapter 4 - Repairs

…

**The next morning…**

Vivien gently tucked the soft baby blanket Nora had crocheted around Joshua. He smacked his tiny lips in his sleep then gave a soft, sweet sigh that melted her heart. She'd been afraid that, after so much activity and upset, he would be fussy for days but he seemed to have forgotten all about the chaos from the night before. She marveled at his resilience and she knew it was better for him that way. Better not to remember such horror.

She felt the presence of another ghost in the doorway and looked over expecting to see Moira but it was the young man who'd given Joshua back to her in the basement. Surprised, she hesitated then gently placed the baby in his bassinet. Then she moved a few steps closer to the doorway, the skirt of her long white lounging dress fluttering lightly with her movement.

The teen boy was dressed in a dark blue and green striped sweater that was three sizes too big and had his thumbs thrust into the pockets of baggy jeans torn at both knees. His well-worn Converse All-Stars sneakers and uncombed, dirty blond hair shading his moody eyes gave him an unkempt orphan appearance that tugged at Vivien's overdeveloped mothering instincts.

"Hello," she said. "You're- you were one of my husband's patients, weren't you?"

Tate shifted his weight uncomfortably at being recognized. "Tate. Tate Langdon. My mother lives next door to you."

Vivien nodded slowly. "Ah. Right. I know Constance but… I've never met you." Or even heard much about him - which she found odd given how long she'd been on speaking terms with the woman. But she never said much about any of her children. Not even Adelaide.

In that moment Tate froze. He seized up on the inside because he knew that was the perfect opening to admit what he'd come to tell her. But he couldn't speak. He wanted very badly to tell her; so badly it brought tears to his eyes. But he just couldn't say anything. It was like a slab of concrete had fallen over his stomach, trapping all the words under it.

"I want to thank you," Vivien said then. "For returning my baby. Do you know if your mother has heard anything about Michael?"

And just like that the window of opportunity was closed.

Tate ducked his head and looked at his shoes. A tear fell on the scuffed toe of one sneaker. "I saw her just a little bit ago. She said he's doing so good they're going to let him go home from the hospital tomorrow. Father Jeremiah got out this morning. I guess he, um, got cut or something. I'm not sure what happened. But they're both gonna be okay."

Vivien looked relieved. "I'm glad to hear that," she nodded. "That's… that's good." She paused. "Do… Could you do me a favor?"

He nodded but he couldn't look at her. She was being so nice to him; it made him feel twice as tainted on the inside.

"When you see your mother again, could you ask her if I could… If I could see Michael?" said Vivien. She laced her fingers in front of her. She was feeling so awkward herself that she wasn't reading his body language, much less analyzing it. "I'm… I'm his mother."

Tate sniffled wetly then. He couldn't help it. The tears wouldn't stay in his eyes. "I know."

"Oh." Vivien blinked in surprise. She could tell now that the teen was crying but she didn't know why. He'd said Michael was doing better. "What's wrong? Is there something wrong with him?"

The boy shook his head. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms tightly around himself. "I… I'm his father."

He scrunched his eyes shut then and flinched down, ready to be hit or yelled at or whatever hideous thing would happen next. Even with his eyes shut he could feel hot tears slipping down his face and dripping into his shirt collar.

It took Vivien a moment to process what he was saying. Then a kaleidoscope of emotions hit her, one on top of the next. Confusion. Shock. Revelation. Fear. Anger. Outrage. Disbelief. Doubt. Bewilderment. It drowned her to the point where her legs felt wobbly. She had to hold onto the bassinet to keep from slumping to her knees.

"But you're not…" She said in a numb way. "But I saw the Rubber Man… You were fighting… him."

"The suit's a monster," Tate said, relaxing his defensive cringe a little when he realized she wasn't going to physically assault him. "It takes over whoever's wearing it and makes them… do bad things."

Vivien had a flashback to the previous Halloween night she'd seen that rubber suit on her husband when they'd made love. She'd dismissed the vision then but after last night and with what Tate was telling her she couldn't help but think of it and wish she'd given it more attention that night. She stared at the teen; he still couldn't look at her. He looked so pitiful and grungy and weak. It was very hard for her to pair that image with the broken memories of the night she'd gotten pregnant with Michael. The night she'd thought she was with Ben. She pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling dizzy.

"You… That was really you? That night?" she stammered.

He nodded and more tears fell on his shoes. "I'm really, really sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am. I never ever wanted to hurt you or anybody in your family. I love Violet. Your husband's always been nice to me. And you're the best mom I ever saw. I'm _so_ sorry I hurt you."

She shook her head. "Why are you telling me this? Now?"

Tate's shoulders hunched in a small and sniffled again. "Violet said you should know. That I should tell you. I'm sorry if that's wrong too. But I wanted to say sorry. If you want, I'll leave you alone now. You'll never have to see me again."

Vivien frowned. "Whoa. You're not going to dump this on me and then run off. I'm… I'm a little shell-shocked right now but I'm sure I'll have plenty to say when I- when I think this through "

"I stay mostly on the third floor," he said, glancing up only briefly. He just saw a flash of her white dress and a smear of her brown hair then his eyes were on the floor again. "Anytime you want to yell at me or whatever, just call for me. You don't have to yell. I'll hear you."

"I will," Vivien nodded.

He retreated then, leaving her alone and shaken. That kid was the father of one of her babies? Almost as soon as he was gone she wanted to know: Was he already dead when he did it? But she decided not to call him back. Instead she went and found a pad of paper and a pencil and started to write a list, beginning with that question.

…

Tate went from the nursery to the downstairs front parlor where Chad and Patrick were repairing a huge crack in the plaster portion of the paneled north wall. The earthquake had left a lot of cosmetic damage to the house that needed fixing, though Chad had determined most of it could be repaired without having to call in outside help. Although things in the house seemed to have gone back to 'normal' after the quake, he was reluctant to bring a living person back into the house so soon after things had gone to hell and back.

"Grab that stir stick and start mixing the paint since you're here," Chad said when he walked in, sensing him before seeing. When he did go to glance back that glance became a disapproving look. He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, thinking further. "If you're going to look like _that_, then you can dry _your_ skin out helping Patrick do the drywall. I'll paint."

Tate had been so preoccupied with the conversation he'd had with Vivien that he didn't age down or clean up or anything before entering the room. He hoped that Chad's attitude meant he was off the hook for the oversight.

Chad got up from where he was working on the lower portion of the wall beneath Pat's ladder. The bigger man was patching up the higher part. Chad shoved a plaster spatula handle-first into Tate's hand. The teen stood there with it for a moment, looking at it blankly.

"Get to work," Chad nagged, shooing at him with one hand. Then he noticed how much drywall gunk was on his cuticles and under his nails. He made a face. "God! And it's going to be months before I can get a decent manicure."

Patrick and Tate exchanged a look. Then Pat rolled his eyes, Tate smiled, and they both got busy filling in the cracked plaster.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

So Vivien finally knows who Michael's baby-daddy is. This is one of those threads that's not going to be entirely resolved by the time this Season ends. It just can't be. Vivien's got a lot to process before she can get past this situation. She doesn't know yet that Violet's seeing him. Then there's the question of whether she's going to want Tate to be near Michael. Or whether she'll want more to do with Michael after she sees him. There's just so much there that I can't cram all the answers into this one episode. Likely the answers would bring more questions anyway.

So here we are mid-way through the last episode. I update on Saturdays around midnight MST. That gives us approximately one more month together with his Season. Then I'll be doing one-shots while I get my offline projects finished up. I'm not sure about a Season 2. Part of me wants to move on but another part can't help asking all these questions about the futures of the characters. So who knows what'll happen after I've got me real world stuff taken care of.

Next chapter things get uncomfortable again so I hope you enjoyed this little bit of 'down time'.


	5. Chapter 5 - Actions & Consequences

…

**2011**

Tate was cold but it didn't bother him. He had none of the physical discomfort that usually came with being cold: No shivers, no muscles tightness, no ache in the bones. It was like the black rubber suit had replaced his skin rather than covered it. It moved him. What it felt, he wasn't sure. Within it he _was _the cold.

When he first thrust into Vivien his dick was still semi-soft but that quickly changed as he experienced the sensation of being inside a woman for the first time. And she was a woman who knew how to have sex. She moved in exciting ways and made exciting sounds. But it was strange to be used like a puppet by the bondage suit to perform the act. Tate couldn't speak. He couldn't even make noise even as the pleasure intensified. He couldn't even blink. Frozen, yet moving. Grinding. Fucking.

It scared him when he saw his gloved hands move over her pretty throat without his permission. He wondered why she didn't stop him. He thought maybe she was under the same sort of control he was experiencing. He hadn't spent much time watching her yet but she didn't strike him as the sort to enjoy that sort of thing. But now, in the moment, she seemed to love the dark passion of the act. She encouraged it by lifting her chin to expose more of that slender neck.

But his hands didn't actual hurt her or even touch her that roughly. And as his thrusts grew deeper he felt a strange sensation inside him, like lightning building up within instead of his being struck from the outside. It wasn't orgasm exactly. He'd had plenty of those alone with his hand to know that. It wasn't quite enjoyable either. It was uncomfortable though it didn't hurt by the standard definition of pain. It was intense and electric, like a strong magnet pulling on his very core. He tried to stop himself, to stop feeling, but there was no stopping.

He could tell she was undergoing something intense as well and it looked like she was experiencing a similar not-quite-pain intensity herself. The closer he got to orgasm, the stronger the pull got and when he came it burned through him like a blowtorch. He would have screamed if he could have made a sound. But still he couldn't even blink. He felt her buck hard against him when his seed spilled into her and she made a strange, strangled noise. He hoped he hadn't hurt her.

Tate lay on top of her for a few seconds afterward then he pulled out and away. He left the room as quietly as he entered. It wasn't until he was in the downstairs bathroom that his hands took the hood off and he could move on his own again. He looked at himself in the mirror, stunned and horrified.

What had he just done?

…

**2018**

After the crack was patched Chad called a break to allow it to dry before he painted over it. He was still busy with color touch-ups that could be done around the wet patch job but he agreed to let his help go clean up until he was ready to direct them to a new chore.

Tate had a shower in the upstairs bathroom while Patrick took the lower one. Showers were funny to the blond boy. Technically, as a ghost, he shouldn't have to get clean that way but his pervasive subconscious accepted the very real drywall and so the easiest way to get the sludge off was by bathing. But he wasn't a bath lover so he hurried the job as much as he could. Even still, Pat finished first; Tate was surprised to find the man in his bedroom when he got back from the bathroom.

"Hey," Tate greeted as he crossed the room to his dresser. He dug around in the top drawer, searching for a pair of underpants he wanted to wear.

"Hey," said Patrick in return. "You know, things have been pretty crazy since Halloween-"

"Tell me about it," Tate interrupted with a short, humorless laugh.

He put on a pair of briefs and let his towel drop to the floor. He immediately started digging for a pair of jeans as he didn't like being seen in his underpants. It was a quirk that he couldn't shake any better than he could the drywall mud.

"But that doesn't mean I've forgotten about what I said that night," the other guy finished.

Tate paused in his search and looked over at the bigger man, confused. He didn't know what Pat was talking about. A lot had been said that night.

"Tate, you blew up a school," reminded Patrick, reading his expression.

The teen got a sinking feeling in his middle. "But-"

"No," Pat cut him off. "What you did has consequences - for lots of people. You probably won't have to see all of it because you're stuck in this house but there are a lot of people who have to clean up that mess and figure out where they're going to work and what to do for school. And… one of your victims somehow ended up stuck here."

Tate frowned. "What? Which one?"

"Some girl," said Patrick. "A cheerleader, I think. Ben brought her in here on Halloween and now she can't leave."

"Great," grumped Tate. He threw on a shirt because he was starting to get cold. "Well. That's not my fault."

His attitude rubbed Patrick the wrong way. "Yes, Tate. It _is_ your fault. You killed her then you destroyed the place she was haunting. She wouldn't have been hanging around here to begin with if it wasn't for you."

Tate didn't want to hear that. It made him sulk.

"There's nothing we can do about the school now," said Pat. "It's gone. But it is time for some consequences."

Tate's frown grew deeper, injected with martyred pain. "Having to live with her is a consequence enough. Isn't it?"

"No," said Patrick firmly. "You can avoid her all you want. Forever, if you choose. But I'm not going to let all of this slide. Chad and I discussed it and we both agree that you need to be punished."

"Oh, come on!" Tate whined, frustration boiling over. "I was- I _did_ get punished! Those guys at Westfield-"

"I know you had it rough with them and I_ don't_ think what they did was right. But I'm sorry to say that, too, is a direct consequence of your killing them in the first place."

Tate shot him a hurt and nasty glare. He didn't like hearing about how he killed anyone and he certainly didn't like Patrick making it sound like he deserved what those jocks did to him.

Patrick refused to be swayed by the expression. "Do you want to keep talking about this?" he asked patiently. "Or do you want to get this over with?"

The teen's expression clouded further as tears welled up. He wanted to say that it wasn't fair but he didn't want to hear again about how it was all his fault.

"Well?" Pat prompted.

"God!" Tate exclaimed. A tear broke free and slid down his cheek. He swiped it away angrily. "Fine. Whatever. Fuck!"

Patrick gave a short sigh and got up. He hadn't expected Tate to take the situation heroically but he had hoped the boy would at least own up to why it was happening. But accepting his actions had never come easily to the reckless teen and now was no exception. The man had to take comfort in knowing that, if nothing else, the moment itself was uncomfortable enough for trouble-prone Tate to consider his actions more carefully in the future.

He went to the closet - which was still torn apart thanks to Violet's removing the clothes rod - and took the belt off the nail on the wall. When he turned back Tate was still standing where he'd been all along, looking very unhappy with his arms folded tightly and tears dripping off his chin.

"Hands on the bed," said Pat, gesturing to it with the looped belt.

"Fuck!" Tate exclaimed. "This isn't fair!" He hadn't meant to say that but it just came out, like a hot lava rock ejected from a volcano. It couldn't be contained.

Patrick arched his brows. "Do you really want to go there?"

Tate glowered at him but looked away quickly. "No," he grumped. Because he really didn't. So he moved to the side of the bed where he bent over and put palms on the mattress, with more force than was necessary. More hot tears slipped free and dripped on the blanket.

Patrick joined him beside the bed and positioned himself next to the unhappy teenager. "If you were alive, you'd go to jail for what you did," he noted. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of the underpants Tate had just put on and tugged them down. "You should count yourself lucky."

"Yeah, right," grumbled Tate. He was _not_ going to think of the situation as a fortunate one, no matter how it was put to him. It wasn't fair, as far as he saw things. Not at all. He just hoped it would be over quickly.

He felt Patrick's free hand settle on the small of his back. He tried to brace himself. The man didn't go easy on him though and it wasn't long before he was yelping in pain. Each humiliating stroke of the belt brought fresh agony. He tried to cling to his indignation as a shield. On Halloween he'd done what he had to do; he was sure of that. But he knew deep down that Patrick was also right. The repercussions of his actions at Westfield - even the ones he couldn't consciously remember - were safely locked outside by the house. His existence wouldn't change just because the school was gone. But he had singlehandedly overturned the lives and existences of a lot of people. Again.

When Patrick finally stopped and let Tate up he straightened and, crying like a kid, hastily rubbed the burning flesh in a futile attempt to soothe the pain. It felt like a thousand wasps stinging over and over but he knew better than to heal it up. That would only invite a longer session with the brown leather strap.

Pat went and hung the belt back on the nail in the closet, taking his time about it so Tate could have a few moments to cry it out. When he came back over, the youth had stopped sobbing though his face was wet from the tears and he was sniffling with a runny nose. Pat grabbed a tissue from the box on the nightstand and rubbed Tate's face with it then left the crumpled thing in his hands to take care of his nose himself.

While the teenager finished the cleanup job, Patrick fished in his pocket for something. "Lay down on your back," he said when he found what he was searching for. Then he reconsidered. "Or your side, if it's too uncomfortable on your back."

Tate sniffled again and looked at him curiously with tear-reddened eyes. "Why?"

"Just do it."

The man's curious demand was enough to put an end to Tate's bout of self-pity - he could always stew later about the injustice - and he complied, stretching out on his side on the bed. He opted for his side because, as predicted, it was too uncomfortable to lie on his back. Having dinner would be a real pain later.

Pat sat down beside him once he was settled. He turned a little, blocking Tate's view of his own lower half. He felt the man's hand on his junk and felt him slip something cool and firm over the head. There was slight resistance which made Tate wince a little. Whatever it was, it was a tight fit. But the discomfort was over with quickly.

"What're you doing?" he demanded, craning his neck. But he couldn't see anything with Pat's back blocking his view.

Patrick shifted then, allowing Tate a look at what he'd done. "It's a ring," he said. "At the Stockroom they called it a crown, I seem to remember."

The thing was indeed a ring, a thin and flat gold band that fit snugly just under the head of Tate's penis. It had a slight 'v' shape to it on the underside and actually looked pretty cool, in his opinion. But as cool as it was, it confused the hell out of him; figuratively.

"What's it for?" he asked.

Patrick exhaled; it was a soft sound that could have been a laugh or a sigh. Then he shifted again so he could put his arm over his ward, bracing his hand on the mattress. "Just don't take it off," he said.

He leaned in then and kissed the teen who, after a surprised instant of hesitation, kissed him back. When they parted Pat stood up.

"I'm going to go see what Chad wants done next," he said. "Get dressed and come down when you're ready." He started to head for the door then but he paused just before leaving. "Don't forget to age down this time."

With that, he left.

…

Vivien didn't know how long it had been since she put Joshua down and sat down in the Boston rocker that was positioned next to his crib. She had dozed off, lulled by the soft autumn sunlight shining hazily through the sheer curtains. But that hint of warmth had faded with the afternoon sun and the lengthening shadows brought a chill with them that stirred her from her rest.

The baby was still sleeping soundly; she suspected his delicate system was overtaxed by the week's hectic events and whatever had happened to him before she'd arrived in the basement. Vivien stretched and scooted to the edge of the rocking chair and froze. The shadows just outside the door moved.

It only took her an instant to identify the source.

"I know you're there," she said, unafraid. She got to her feet.

He came fully into the room then and she looked at him, mouth setting in a hard, unforgiving line.

"Vivien," said Ben. He wasn't wearing the black rubber suit any longer. He looked like himself, dressed in a simple dark blue Henley thermal shirt and a pair of black pants. Years ago - just days ago - she would have found him handsome."Viv…"

"I don't want you here," she said without sympathy. "We don't need you."

The pain those simple words caused him was evident in his broken expression. But she hardened her heart against the tears that brightened his blue eyes.

"Please, Vivien," he said. "What happened… That wasn't- It wasn't me. You have to believe that. You _know_ me!"

"Yeah, Ben," she nodded but the gesture was almost circular because she wanted to shake her head at the same time, denying him. "I know you. I thought I did before. Before we came here. Before Hayden." That last word was poison in her mouth. "Before all of this… this bullshit. Now I _really_ know you. And I don't want you here. _We_ don't want you here."

"Please, Viv. Don't do this," he begged. He moved closer to her and she took a noticeable step backward, away from him. The look of disgust on her face broke his heart all over again. "I love you!"

"No. You don't," she said coldly. Now she was fighting tears. She didn't want to cry. Not for him, not because of him, ever again. "You love _you_. Hell, I don't even know if you have that much love in you."

"That's not true!" he flared. Tears trickled down his stubbly cheeks but he didn't brush them away. "You and Violet and Joshua... You're the only light I've ever known. I don't want to lose it."

"It's too late, Ben," she said, folding her arms tightly under her breasts. "There's just too much… It's just too much. I can't. I can't do this. Not anymore."

"Vivien, please!"

She steeled herself against his lost puppy look. "Go away, Ben," she said and though her voice trembled with emotion, she meant it. She shut her eyes and a lone tear slid out beneath her lashes against her will. "Go away and leave us alone."

When she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

So. That was supposed to answer the 'what is Rubber Man?' question but I guess it only partly did. Sorry... I warned you that I was going to end up leaving us all with more questions despite my attempts to answer them all. This particular subject is one that still has me wondering. Is the force part of what Father Jeremiah believes to be controlling the house? Is it Charles Montgomery, controlling what's in his home?

As for Tate... I'm afraid he'll never fully accept any of the bad things he's done. He might say it to someone, if he thought that's what they needed to hear. But inside he will always feel divorced from his actions and their consequences, even if he isn't being powered by the suit. Between his overbearing mother and the control the house has on him and has had for so long, he'll always feel a victim himself. But I think maybe Patrick and Chad could possibly keep him from doing too much harm in the future. Maybe? As weird as their methods are, it's better than nothing I suppose.

And in the line of unanswered questions, I'm curious to know how Tate's going to explain his ring to Violet. Or if. Hmm. Too many unanswered questions, dangit.

Next chapter: Tate takes on Chloe and Constance deals with the Ambrose situation.


	6. Chapter 6 - Prisoners

…

**2018**

He was in child form when Tate first saw Chloe within the confines of Murder House. He saw her from behind and managed to shift up to his normal age before she saw him. But she, like most ghosts, could sense when another one was close by so she did see him once she'd turned around. Of all of them, only Constance didn't register to the spirits like another spirit; her and Rubber Man. Tate still wasn't aware his mother had died - and if she had her way, he never would.

When she saw Tate, Chloe scowled. "Leave me alone."

Tate held up his hands like her hateful gaze was a loaded weapon. His snake ring slipped down to rest on the knuckle of his thumb. "Look. You have… _every_ reason to hate me," he said with utmost sincerity.

He entered the room, moving slowly, like one might approach a wild animal that was about to run or fight. The dark-haired girl folded her arms and frowned deeper. Tate lowered his arms just as slowly.

"If what everybody says is true about me… I deserve it," he went on when she didn't throw a fit about his coming into the room. "I swear I don't remember any of it. I never knew you. If I did- if I did shoot you… I'm sorry." His eyes misted over and a tear slipped free but he ignored it and plowed ahead. "I know you want to know why I did it but I don't even know. I don't know why we're all stuck here. Or why the bad things that happen here happen. I wish to God I did."

"Yeah," Chloe said, tone stiff. "Right. Let me guess. You don't remember blowing up the school either."

He felt an inappropriate smile try to surface and he had to fight hard to keep it off his face. "No. I remember _that_."

"You're such a fucking asshole!" the cheerleader exclaimed. "It wasn't enough that you stole my life and my family from me? You had to go and blow up the only other place I had left? And now I'm STUCK here! With YOU!"

She stalked over then and gave him a hard shove. He let her. He didn't fight back or defend himself. He didn't even try to hold his ground; when she pushed, he fell back a step. She shoved him again. There wasn't as much strength in the second strike but she quickly followed it with another double-handed push. It was even weaker, as was the next one till she finally just gave up and started crying.

"I hate you!" she wept. "God! Why did you do this to me?!"

His shoulders slumped. His eyes burned but the tears didn't fall. "I'm sorry. I know it doesn't matter but I am. I'm gonna go away now. You won't see me again. We can do that. It's a crowded house… But only if you let it be."

He turned and stepped back out into the hall and was surprised to hear her call out to him.

"Wait," she said in a strange tone.

He paused and looked back into the room.

"How… How many people are trapped here?"

Tate made a little shrug, brows steepling up. "I don't know. Lots. Maybe thirty. Or more."

Chloe sniffled and shook her head. The action made her dark ponytail sway. "Holy shit." She shook her head again. "Do you know where Doctor Harmon is?"

It was Tate's turn to shake his head. "I haven't seen him since… I haven't seen him in a while." He wasn't getting into what happened in the cellar with her. It wasn't even entirely clear to him and what little he remembered wouldn't make him look any better.

"If you see him, could you… tell him I need to talk to him?" she said, rubbing her face with the sleeves of her sweater.

Tate nodded then he left the room and headed upstairs to find Violet.

…

"How in the world did you do it?" Constance asked Charles admiringly.

The dark-haired doctor smiled at her. It was a dreamy, hazy look thanks to the large amounts of ether he'd inhaled. "It took some trial and error," he said. "But in the end putting a metal plate in his head is what did the trick. I found by physically blocking the tissue with inorganic matter the healing process slowed. Metal worked best." He might be high as a kite but he could exhibit interest in explaining his work to someone who seemed genuinely interested. "I tried several different types but only iron was able to fully arrest the man's regenerative abilities. He's quite a specimen."

His enthusiasm for his work was a refreshing change from the slump he'd been in the past few years but it only confirmed Constance's fears: If she left Mr. Ambrose in the care of the doctor, eventually he would kill the man with his experimenting. As much as she detested the house's present owner, she needed him to be kept alive for now.

"You're sure it will hold, then?" she probed.

He nodded. "I've checked and re-checked. The iron really works."

"That's wonderful, Charles," she praised with a smile that belied her true feelings. "You really are a brilliant surgeon."

"You think so?" he said and his smile melted into blissfulness so profound he almost looked pained.

"I know so," she assured. She reached over and brushed his cheek with her fingers then withdrew again. "I'll just go ahead and get him out of your way then, since he's fixed. Let you get back to more important matters."

Charles looked vaguely disappointed. "Oh. Must you?"

Constance's smile twitched. "You don't want that big ol' man-monster hangin' around here getting' underfoot. He'll be better off someplace where he won't mess up your work. Where is he at anyway?"

The doctor wasn't as sure as she was that he was better off without the mortal. The surgeon had actually started to like working on the big man and had a few notions as to how to try and harness that regenerative ability. Perhaps, he'd thought, it could be used to make Thaddeus more human. But he lifted a hand to motion toward the back of the cellar. "I chained him up back there to keep him from wandering off."

Constance nodded and headed back in the direction he'd indicated. When she found him, Ambrose was secured to the back wall by a chain that linked to the black iron collar Dr. Montgomery had placed on him. He had prominent scarring on his forehead and scalp from the multiple times Charles had cut into his head. The gray-haired brute was just sitting there staring vacantly into space, just short of drooling. She drew closer then paused when the smell hit her. He was sitting in his own filth.

Constance had no sympathy for him. As far as she was concerned, he was a nuisance to the last. "What am I gonna do with you?" she muttered, waving a hand before her nose. It didn't help.

She couldn't entrust his care to any one person in the house; each one had liabilities that made them unsuited to the task. But the chain gave her an idea. She smiled to herself then; a plan was unfurling so fast in her thoughts it made her wonder why she hadn't thought of it sooner. Trying to ignore the smell, she released the chain from the fastener set into the wall and reeled it in.

The attic had been the ideal place to house Beauregard after he had gotten too wild to be allowed to run loose in the house. All the hardware she'd had Larry put in to chain the boy up with was still in the rafters up there. It would be the perfect place to put Ambrose where he would be contained and easy to forget about. All she'd have to do would be to remember to feed him and provide him with water. Moira could handle the cleanup and Constance was pretty sure she could rope a few of the mansion's other occupants into providing him food - if for no other reason than it would give them something to do.

The arrangement would serve until she could pull some strings to bring in a lawyer who would see to it that Mr. Ambrose signed all of his property over to the care of Father Jeremiah. Then she could move the brute out of the house to some discreet location and have him killed there, where he would never be a problem for anyone again.

She wished she could ask Father Jeremiah to take care of the man when the moment was right as he was the most capable and could go the farthest distance from the house. But she wasn't keen on the idea of asking a priest to murder someone. That felt dark even by her standards. More than likely she would have Tate do it on the next Halloween. It would be easiest. She knew he could kill a helpless man. He may not like doing it but it wouldn't be the first person he'd killed; probably not the last either.

"I guess I'm stuck with you till next fall," she said smugly. "After that, it's harvestin' time."

She unchained him from the wall then. She gave the length of chain still attached to his iron collar a sharp tug. "Come on. Let's find you a corner in the attic. You can keep Beauregard company."

She'd chained her son up there many times. It would be simple enough to deal with him the way she'd dealt with her handicapped boy. It would be just as easy to forget about him up there too.

…

* * *

Author's Note:

Poor Charles. Constance took his toy away. I do wonder if that metal plate's going to work till next Halloween. This is another one of those hanging questions that I'm afraid I won't get to answer this season. Likewise the same goes for whether or not Constance has Tate take Ambrose out someplace and kill him. I'm also curious to know how Chloe will factor into Ben's existence now that Vivien's told him to 'go away'. Undoubtedly these matters will turn up later, in the one-shots I promised.

So. Wow. Next chapter's it. The end. Are you ready for it? It's all written except the epilogue segment but I just don't feel like it's over. Maybe it never will be for me. I think Murder House has staked its claim on my imagination.


	7. Chapter 7 - The End - or the Beginning

…

Tate found Violet in the dining room. She had Chad's scrapbooking stuff spread on the dark wood table and was looking at some photos she'd laid out in front of her.

"Hey," he said from the doorway.

She looked up and smiled at him. "Hey."

He came all the way into the room and over to her side and looked at the photos that were on the table. "What're you doing?"

Then he saw her scrapbook. He had to resist the urge to grab it off the table. It was hers; not his. And the reason it was important to him was because it was hers. But he still felt the impulse to protect it; to hide it with his favorite treasures.

"Well," she said, looking back down at the spread before her. Her straight hair fell in a way that curtained her face from his view. "I found my scrapbook in your room-"

"Sorry," he said, feeling obligated to apologize even though he didn't regret taking it one bit. It was the only thing that had kept him feeling close to her for a long time.

"It's cool," she said without hesitation. "But I figured… maybe you should have your own."

He frowned, confused. "My own scrapbook? God. Chad would love that."

She chuckled. "I'm sure. But here. See?" She pushed some of the photos toward him.

He looked and saw something that surprised him. It was a picture of him and Violet. Together. "But. How..?"

Violet looked up at him then and her smile was warm and sweet. "Photoshop. Your mom let me borrow some of her pictures of you and I ran them through Mr. Ambrose's scanner. I edited them together with some of me and printed them. Look. Here we are at Disneyland. And… this is the beach. Oh. Here's one of us with your mom and sister. I think that one came out really well."

"It's like magic," Tate breathed. He touched the photos gingerly, like they might evaporate if he messed with them too much.

"If you get some of Chad and Patrick, I can make you some pictures with them too," she said. "Technically I could put us with anyone because we have the internet. Any celebrity you want."

He smiled, liking that idea. But the expression faded quickly as he recalled why he'd sought her out in the first place. "I… I talked to your mom."

She got serious as well. "How'd it go?" she said, trying not to sound as anxious as she felt when thinking about the meeting.

Tate settled into the chair to her right and ran a hand through his blond hair, making it stick up. "Not as bad as I thought, I guess. She was… she was upset. But… she talked to me. She- I think she wants to talk to me again later. When she… when she knows what she wants to say. I think she was kind of, um, you know. She was surprised. Mad. But I guess she was mostly just, like. Overwhelmed."

Violet thought about what he said and nodded. "Yeah, that makes sense. I would be too, I guess. I mean, I was. I guess I kind of still am. But I know it wasn't really you," she added when she saw his expression fall. "I'm mad at… it."

He sighed and sagged in the chair. He clasped his hands in his lap and toyed with his snake ring, twisting it around with his other thumb as best as he could with his fingers laced together. "Do you… Do you think it's gone? Rubber Man?"

The question brought a grim look to Violet's face. "I don't know. I wish. But… probably not. Maybe my dad was in it last but you said it could move on its own. I think maybe it's… maybe it's something we don't really understand."

"Do you think it's what Father Jeremiah said?"

She shook her head slowly. "I really don't know. But I don't think it's an angel. Or demon. Whatever you want to call it. I don't think words really apply. You know? This… all of this. It's bigger than things people can think up. Or understand. I don't think it was ever alive, not like we were. Trying to put names on it is like trying to define what's outside of the universe."

Tate's lips curled up on one side, dimpling his cheek. "You sound like Chad."

"Do I?" Violet smiled now. "Well. Chad can be bitchy but he's pretty smart."

"Yeah," said Tate thoughtfully, as though it hadn't occurred to him before that moment. "Yeah. I guess he is."

He looked back at the photos again. "Yeah," he said then, answering his own feelings out loud. "I'll see if maybe he and Pat have some photos they'll let us borrow. Maybe you can put all of us in Australia or something. I always wanted to go to Australia."

She smiled and reached over to put her hand over his folded ones. "Cool."

Then she leaned over and they kissed.

…

Tate was lying on his bed upstairs looking through the scrapbook he and Violet had been working on the past couple of days. He thought it was shaping up to be a pretty nice album. He hadn't been very interested in the craft when Chad had forced him to participate but he decided it wasn't such a bad pastime after all, especially when he was doing it with Violet.

He sensed the presence of another spirit in his room and glanced over toward the door. Ben stood there in the doorway. It was a visit Tate had half-expected and half-dreaded. He had no idea what, if anything, the man remembered about the night Rubber Man took the kids to the basement.

"Hey," Ben said. He looked piqued and puffy-eyed, like he'd been sick… or crying a lot.

"Hey, Doctor Harmon," Tate said, sitting up. He was sort of glad he was in his older aspect. The thought of being around Ben while Tate was child-sized wasn't very appealing at the moment. "What're you doing here?"

"I just…" Ben shrugged. "I guess I just wanted to see if we… If you and me… If you still wanted to hang out sometime?"

Tate tipped his head curiously. What the man said reminded him an awful lot of the conversation they'd had back when Violet had told Tate to go away. The teen remembered how alone he'd felt back then; how desperate for reassurance. And despite his obvious misgivings, Ben had agreed to keep talking to him. Eventually those chats had led Tate to making amends with the men he now considered his guardians. Strange, how things had come full circle.

"Yeah," Tate said after a long pause. "Sure. I mean… You didn't shut me out when I fucked up. Even though you had every right to."

Ben looked both relieved and grateful. "You know I wasn't- That wasn't really me. Downstairs. You know that, right?"

Tate raked his teeth over his upper lip, tearing off a bit of non-existent skin to chew on. "Hey, doc. You don't have to explain anything to me. I know what it's like, being in the suit. It's power at first, you know? But it's… it's not." He shook his head. "It only makes you feel powerful while it's taking everything away from you. It's kinda like drugs."

Ben ran a hand through his black hair and gave a little nod, eyes on the floor. "It won't happen again," he said emphatically but his voice trembled a bit.

"Doctor Harmon?"

The man looked over at him. There were tears in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"A long time ago you said… you said I reminded you of you. And you said if there was hope for you, there was hope for anyone."

Ben nodded slowly. He remembered that conversation though he wasn't sure what Tate's angle was in bringing it up now.

"Well," Tate said, getting to his feet. "I think you were right. I think…" He paused then he smiled, both dimples showing. "I know you helped me. Maybe… I can help you."

The proposition made the psychiatrist blink in surprise. "How?"

Tate shrugged then patted his shoulder. "We'll figure it out together. Just like always. Right?"

Ben actually smiled then. It was a thin smile but it was a real one. "Thanks, Tate."

"Don't mention it," the teen said lightly. Then he got serious, putting on his earnest face. "I ran into that cheerleader chick downstairs. Chloe? She's looking for you. I guess she got stuck here after… after I blew up the school."

Ben winced. "Shit. Okay. Thanks. Um. I should probably go find her. She's probably pretty confused."

"Yeah," Tate agreed. "She was also pretty pissed off when I talked to her. But that's probably just because it's me she was talking to. She might be nicer to you."

"We'll see," said Ben without faith. At the moment he wasn't sure of anything, really. He hesitated then said, "Would it be okay if I hug you?"

Tate gave the odd request a little thought. "Sure, I guess," he said. Then he smiled big. "Just don't stick a knife in my back or anything." He saw the pained look Ben got then and he quickly added: "Joking! I was just joking."

He let the man hug him then and even hugged back. While they were embracing, he said very quietly: "Don't give up, Doctor Harmon. If there's hope for somebody like me… there really is hope for anybody."

When they let go, both of their eyes were moist. Then Ben left and Tate went back to his bed and the scrapbook. He looked at the album and at the retouched picture of him and Violet at the zoo. They were standing in front of a large cage of brightly colored parrots. He smiled to himself. For the first time in a very, very long time he dared to believe that everything would be okay.

…

**2019 - New Year's Eve**

Father Jeremiah leaned on the porch rail that flanked Constance's house, his arms folded and his expression placid. From that quiet vantage point he could hear the party next door. Practically every light was on in the house, even in the attic, and it sounded like a real swinging bash. Of course Chad had extended invitations to him, Constance and Michael but they all agreed that it was probably for the best that they didn't come over. Since the earthquake, things had gone back to what was deemed 'normal' at Murder House but no one wanted to risk anything on the cusp of a new decade.

"It's almost midnight. We should be… ringin' in 2020. What're you doin' out here?" Constance asked from the front doorway.

Jeremiah glanced back and offered her a smile. She had two full champagne flutes in her hands. He returned to gazing about the neighborhood. "Just watching the world change."

She came over and leaned against his back, offering one of the glasses over his shoulder. He took it though he didn't really want it. The blonde woman stayed pressed to his back, her arm draped over his shoulder now that her hand was free of the glass.

"What do you see?" she asked quietly, near his ear.

He turned his head just a bit and was just inches from brushing his lips against hers. "I see… Your freedom."

Jeremiah looked to his champagne glass then, helping himself to a sizeable drink. He sighed the after-flavor.

Constance chuckled and peeled herself off the man. She came to stand beside him. "About time."

"Anything worthwhile is worth waiting for," he said, lifting his glass to her.

She smirked at him. "We'll see." Then she looked out at the dark street as well, wishing she could see what he saw. "Come tomorrow, we'll know for sure."

"Mm-hmm," agreed Jeremiah.

But he already knew. He could see his Lord's influence spreading out over the neighborhood; he had been watching the misty, shimmering fog stretch further and further out ever since the sun had gone down. By the time the sun rose the next morning, the whole city would be engulfed. The area would once again be open to the people who'd been trapped in Murder House. But such freedom would come at the price of every other spirit out there having that same freedom. A strange future lay ahead, for certain.

Next door they could hear the voices unify from a general chatter to a chant, counting down the seconds until the new year arrived.

"It's dropping!" Michael squealed from the sitting room. "Hurry up or you'll miss it!"

Constance headed for the door, pausing on her way in to look back at Jeremiah. "Are you comin'?"

Jeremiah took one last look around the neighborhood. He wouldn't be able to miss this New Year's arrival, even without a Times Square ball or even the countdown next door. But he smiled and went to join his little family inside. They might be moving into a dark zone where LA became a ghost town but there was no need to disappoint Michael the first time he got to stay up late enough to see in the new year.

It was the end of 2019. 2020 would be a year to remember.

**xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

The End. Cue Nine Inch Nails '_Dead Souls_'. Or '_Tonight You Belong To Me_' by Patience and Prudence. What the hell, you could play both, back to back. It's the end so you feel free to do what you want.

Hard to believe it's over. Ironically, this Season ends the night before the 15th anniversary of the shootings at Columbine High School. A strange coincidence.

I am still planning to do one-shots in the future but I'm also working on an original story that I eventually hope to get published. More on that later, as it develops. I may eventually write another season for Murder House, but that will largely depend on how over-active my imagination gets.

I want to thank you for taking the time to read all of this. Totaled up, this fanfic is over 200,000 words - that's a whole book! I'm amazed you stuck with me this long. Thanks for reading. It really has made it worth sharing my writing to hear all the positive (and even the negative) things folks have said. Not only do I have more closure than I did when the show ended but I feel I've grown as a writer. So thanks for that.

Take care and I hope you'll come back for the one-shots.

This episode ranked 'H.P. Lovecraft' on _I Write Like..._


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